


Zweisamkeit

by lustig



Series: Einsamkeit - Trevilieu Mutant Verse [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Epilogue, Gen, Happy Ending, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28841319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: Time has passed, and Richelieu has found his peace, against his own expectations.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu & de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Series: Einsamkeit - Trevilieu Mutant Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114790
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Zweisamkeit

**Author's Note:**

> This is the epilogue to my story Einsamkeit. Reading it probably won't make a whole lot of sense if you don't know the previous story.
> 
> Honestly didn't think I would write that, but the idea did not leave me alone.
> 
> Beta'd by my wonderful Liadt. Thank you so much for all the work you put in for me.

Time passed. Times changed. People moved on. Mutants became more common, more normalised, more _humanised_. The Archbishop of New York had made good on his promise, and had given the Cardinal all the help, all the support he had needed, sometimes even more than he would have dared ask for.

They had given him a small diocese, somewhere in a hidden corner in France where time must have stopped moving an eternity ago. The grandparents had stayed, the kids moved away, the grandkids sometimes came to visit. The Sun shone and the rain fell, years went by. Life was slow.

Richelieu had once strived for something more, something bigger, something _important_.

However, his time in the prison, in isolation, had taught him humbleness. Taking pleasure in smaller things. As much as he feared thinking back to that time, he could not deny it had made him a better person.

_Jean_ had made him a better person.

He sighed, and moved on.

He changed these people’s lives, he knew. The old village folk, that came to him with their old village folk problems, their old village folk worries, their old-fashioned outlook on life. They were at home here, and they all radiated a sort of warm contentedness that had drawn him in and softened him, soothed him. Who was he to look down at them and belittle them for thinking the biggest problem in the world was if the grandchildren would like the raspberry cake they had baked, or if the rains this year were coming at a time that meant the apricots would not ripen at their usual rate?

The Cardinal was at peace, in his old village church, in his sleeping village hidden from the public eye. The quiet did him good. Life was good. Better than it had ever been before, possibly.

He smiled to himself, when passing two elderly ladies, who were – as he could read in their minds – talking about him. _The handsome young American_ , they kept calling him in their heads. He was only twenty, maybe thirty years their junior, and even though they respected him as their priest, they also tended to treat him as a kind of everyone’s son.

He had been lost when he had moved to this place. This village, _these people_ , had found him. They were his, and he was theirs. What did it matter that he could read their sins, even the ones they did not tell him about, in their minds, when they came to Confession? What did it matter that he knew their fears and worries, their happiness and joy, without them telling him? They led simple lives, yet more meaningful than anything he had experienced back in the New World. His mutation did not matter here. He did not know if they were even aware of it. If they were, they did not care. He was there for them, he knew when to come to them even if they could not come to him, or _would_ not come to him. The village was small enough that he could simply keep tabs on everyone, somewhere in the back of his mind.

Yes. Life was good.

He could not remember the last time he had had a panic attack, or another bad flashback, or broadcasted a nightmare to everyone around him.

He could remember blue. A unique shade, always somewhere out of reach. And it was alright. Richelieu had made his peace with Jean too.

He smiled at an elderly couple enjoying the early summer sunshine between bushes of blooming lavender. They waved at him, he a toothless grin, she with wrinkles all over her face.

When he stepped into the small graveyard surrounding the church, he came to a surprised stop. A man, not young anymore, but definitely looking younger than any of the village inhabitants or even himself was leaning on the sun-warmed stones next to the entrance, and, yes, the Cardinal closed his eyes, send his mind out to brush against the newcomer’s, the blue, for the first time since their farewells in Paris, _matched_.

He hesitated, for the blink of an eye, then pulled his keys out and kept walking towards the church’s entrance. Jean pushed himself away from the wall, stood straighter and looked at the Cardinal expectantly. His eyes were still the same startling shade of blue, but less troubled, the once ageless face now sprinkled with countless tiny wrinkles, his rich, nearly black hair peppered with salt. There was softness in the gaze, and a happy serenity that filled Richelieu with gladness.

“Jean,” he greeted his old warden, and turned to unlock the door, fully expecting the other mutant to follow him inside.

“Armand.”

The Cardinal exhaled.

“You can come in.”

“I know.”

Richelieu turned around, and _oh_ , there he was, Jean, _smiling_. One corner of his mouth turned up, eyes half-lidden against the sunlight, slouching against the old stone door frame. The Cardinal stared at him, waiting. It would have been so easy to slip into Jean’s mind and weave through whatever he was thinking about, but Richelieu had grown to treasure the spoken word, the spoken _thought_ over the wild and unfiltered ramble going on in most people’s minds.

“I came to apologise,” Jean offered, breaking eye contact and focusing on the gravel path between them. He exhaled, closed his eyes, then looked up again, the playful grin replaced by a deeply earnest expression. “I – that day in Paris, I behaved deeply dishonourably towards you. Asking you to follow certain conditions for you to keep me by your side. With that, I have betrayed one of the values I hold in highest regard. I – I find it hard to forgive myself for this, and my excuse, that I was not feeling at my greatest at that moment, is feeble at best. I do not beg for your forgiveness, but I wanted to tell you that, since then, I have seen the error of my ways, and felt ashamed for the way I exploited and treated you. It would make me happy if you accepted my apology, but I would understand if you would rather not see me again after today.”

Jean looked uncomfortable, and let his gaze wander away, running over the names on the old gravestones and the blooming lavender bushes.

Richelieu could not help but smile.

“I have already forgiven you a long time ago, Jean. I accept your apology with gladness.” He stepped closer, softly touched Jean’s shoulder with one hand. “I forgive you, Jean,” he repeated, after their eyes locked.

Jean’s lashes fluttered shut, and a low noise escaped him. He swallowed, the blue presence of his mind a swirling mess, pressing against Richelieu’s with too many emotions, too many thoughts.

“You look older,” the Cardinal said tentatively, to lead Jean’s mind away from the storm beginning to build.

The waves calmed down.

“They found a cure. Didn’t you hear about it? It was a few years ago, but the therapy still takes some time.” Richelieu was not sure if he had heard about it. Maybe someone had mentioned it at some point and he had not paid enough attention to the detail to put one and one together. Maybe he had been so isolated in his village that the news truly had not made its way to him, yet.

And what would it change for him? He liked his ability, and the way it helped him with his diocese. Jean had been a peripheral thought for a long time, too closely connected to his time in the prison to think about him with fondness and pleasure only.

“Congratulations,” the Cardinal quietly offered, and meant it. Jean smiled. Age suited him.

“I have never felt more alive,” he said, “At least, I cannot remember the last time I might have. Not in the last few decades, I am sure.”

Richelieu stepped into the church, turned around in the entrance, Jean still leaning against the frame.

“Maybe, we could try and be friends, now that you have finally gained mortality. _Real_ friends. Life here has helped _me_ get back on track. It might help you as well. If you are not otherwise engaged, of course.”

Jean pushed himself away from the wall and ran a hand through his hair.

“Friends,” he replied thoughtfully, “I think I would like that.”


End file.
